the Parshendi, the three of them alone on an expanse of rock, the fossilized chasmfiend staring at them from the left.
“I am Eshonai,” the Parshendi said. “Do you remember me?”
“No,” Adolin said. He pitched his voice down to try and match the voice of his father, and hoped that—with the helm in place—it would be enough to fool this woman, who couldn’t know well what Dalinar sounded like.
“Not surprising,” Eshonai said. “I was young and unimportant when we first met. Barely worth remembering.”
Adolin had originally expected Parshendi conversation to be singsongish, from what he’d heard said of them. That wasn’t the case at all. Eshonai had a rhythm to her words, the way she emphasized them and where she paused. She changed tones, but the result was more of a chant than a song.
Inadara took out a writing board and spanreed, then started writing down what Eshonai said.
“What is this?” Eshonai demanded.
“I came alone, as you asked,” Adolin said, trying to project his father’s air of command. “But I will record what is said and send it back to my generals.”
Eshonai did not raise her faceplate, so Adolin had a good excuse not to raise his. They stared at each other through eye slits. This was not going as well as his father had hoped, but it was about what Adolin had expected.
“We are here,” Adolin said, using the words his father had suggested he begin with, “to discuss the terms of a Parshendi surrender.”
Eshonai laughed. “That is not the point at all.”
“Then what?” Adolin demanded. “You seemed eager to meet with me. Why?”
“Things have changed since I spoke with your son, Blackthorn. Important things.”
“What things?”
“Things you cannot imagine,” Eshonai said.
Adolin waited, as if pondering, but actually giving Inadara time to correspond with the warcamps. Inadara leaned up to him, whispering what Navani and Dalinar had written for him to say.
“We tire of this war, Parshendi,” Adolin said. “Your numbers dwindle. We know this. Let us make a truce, one that would benefit us both.”
“We are not as weak as you believe,” Eshonai said.
Adolin found himself frowning. When she’d spoken to him before, she’d seemed passionate, inviting. Now she was cold and dismissive. Was that right? She was Parshendi. Perhaps human emotions didn’t apply to her.
Inadara whispered more to him.
“What do you want?” Adolin asked, speaking the words his father sent. “How can there be peace?”
“There will be peace, Blackthorn, when one of us is dead. I came here because I wanted to see you with my own eyes, and I wanted to warn you. We have just changed the rules of this conflict. Squabbling over gemstones no longer matters.”
No longer matters? Adolin started to sweat. She makes it sound like they were playing their own game all this time. Not desperate at all. Could the Alethi have misjudged everything so profoundly?
She turned to go.
No. All of this, just to have the meeting puff into smoke? Storm it!
“Wait!” Adolin cried, stepping forward. “Why? Why are you acting like this? What is wrong?”
She looked back at him. “You really want to end this?”
“Yes. Please. I want peace. Regardless of the cost.”
“Then you will have to destroy us.”
“Why?” Adolin repeated. “Why did you kill Gavilar, all those years ago? Why betray our treaty?”
“King Gavilar,” Eshonai said, as if mulling over the name. “He should not have revealed his plans to us that night. Poor fool. He did not know. He bragged, thinking we would welcome the return of our gods.” She shook her head, then turned again and jogged off, armor clinking.
Adolin stepped back, feeling useless. If his father had been there, would he have been able to do more? Inadara still wrote, sending the words to Dalinar.
A reply from him finally came. “Return to the warcamps. There is nothing you, or I myself, could have done. Clearly, her mind is already made up.”
Adolin spent the return ride brooding. When he finally reached the warcamps a few hours later, he found his father in conference with Navani, Khal, Teshav, and the army’s four battalionlords.
Together, they pored over the words that Inadara had sent. A group of parshman servants quietly brought wine and fruit. Teleb—wearing the Plate that Adolin had won from his duel with Eranniv—watched from the side of the room, Shardhammer on his back, faceplate up. His people had once ruled Alethkar. What did he think of all this? The man usually kept his opinions to himself.
Adolin stomped into the room, pulling off his father’s—well, Renarin’s—helm. “I should have let you